The Morgenstern's Kingdom
by jigglyjelly28
Summary: Beyond the flaming hills, and the pillaged city of Idris, a new king rises from the ashes with his court of demons. Few Shadowhunters in Idris survived the war; others, from Institutes from across the globe, join the last Idris-based warriors to overthrow the Demon-King from their home. All he asks for is his brother and sister to help him bring glory to his childhood home.
1. Home

**Helloooo! There's going to be a lot of firsts for me with this story! **

**This** **is my first story for The Mortal Instruments - and my first M-rated fic. This will also be the very first time when I shall choose (and try to) keep my chapters of a relative short length, so that I can update more often.**

**And I'd hate to be a bother doing this, but I want to set review limits (first time I've ever decided this) until I post the new chapter, so I know I'm not doing this story in vain. For this introductory one, however, I will not be asking for a certain amount of reviews - I just hope at least one person does. **

** Anyway, enjoy!**

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><p><em>"If the king is pious, the subjects become so; but if the king is vicious, the subjects become the same."<em>

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><p><p>

"Master, he says he wants to see you," the soldier rasped. The other knights laughed and cheered, filling the Great Hall with a cacophony of noise.

It was sweet music to his ears.

"So he's ready to play? Bring him in then - and make sure he's appropriately dressed," the king said, winking.

The laughter increased and the king stalked back to his throne to await his prisoner's arrival.

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><p>It had roughly been half an hour later when his solider returned with the prisoner in tow and the king could see why. He was naked, as he had requested, and covered in fresh and festered wounds, which only served to rally up his court's bloodlust as he was dragged down the aisle. They spat, shrieked and clawed at him as he moved in between them, laughing even harder when he winced. Yet, they would not touch him - and that made the king even happier.<p>

They knew that this was his kill.

"Brother," the king said silkily. "I hear you're ready to talk."

"We're not brothers," he spat weakly. Weak from his new wounds, his infected ones, the endless sleepless nights, or his defeated hope - the king did not know. However, the king also did not care.

He chuckled and stood up from his throne. His purple cloak fluttered behind him as he descended the short steps to where his dying brother lay. "What _are_ brothers, brother?" He asked rhetorically. "Are they not males raised by the same parent?" His expression turned furious at his brother's lack of response. "I never said we were _blood_ brothers. We are only brothers in spirit, by name and by our _father_."

There was still no response from the boy, and the king had had enough. He knew - they all knew - the prisoner wasn't dead yet, and defiance to the king by not answering his polite questions was intolerable. He looked to the guard who delivered a sharp kick to his ribs. The boy groaned but didn't look up. The king didn't need to give any indication to his guards to tell them what comes next.

His matted hair was yanked back and he was forced to look at his new king. "You said you wanted to talk, Herondale, so let's talk. Where is my sister hiding?"

"I'm _not_ a Herondale-"

"It just so happens that I don't care what your name is. Herondale, Lightwood, Wayland - _Morgenstern_ - what does it matter? You're the last of your line either way. What I care about is bringing my sister home and giving her a life free of hiding."

There was no reply from him. The king growled.

"I'm not against having you possessed, brother, if it means I get what I want. Tell me where my sister is, and I'll welcome you into my court, where your wounds will be treated. _When_ my sister comes home, I'll even allow you both to be married as long as you take the Morgenstern name - because the line _will_ continue." He paused contemplatively and stared at his brother's feverish face. He then said more quietly, "Through me or through you, the Morgenstern line will continue."

The prisoner used his strength to spit by the king's feet. "I'd rather die," he said hoarsely.

The king could see that no matter whether he believed it or not, it was difficult for him to make these sorts of promises. He knew that his brother had considered the possibility of how else the Morgenstern line will continue, if not – apparently - through him.

"I'd rather die than be trapped in a court run by a monster, and followed by demons. I would rather die, and make sure you never know where Clary is, than to be married to her, trapped inside this... _hell-on-Earth_."

"Clarissa _belongs_ with her family!" He abruptly shouted, unable to bear the thought of her being anywhere else.

Promising her to this weakling in front of him had already crossed a line in his conscience, never mind her being possibly dead, without his knowledge – or living any longer without him to protect her, as he should've done ever since she was born. _She was supposed to be with him._

He backhanded the prisoner across the face in a fit of rage. He composed himself quickly. "_Fine_. Alistair, possess him. Find out if she really is where the scouts said."

The king strutted back to his throne and languidly settled on it, with the air of someone who had already won.

Alistair stepped forward onto the dais, and his own mob of guards seized the king's brother. They held his head up, exposing his neck, and placed him firmly on his own two feet. Such was the position and state of the prisoner, he gasped for air; black, sticky fingers quickly found their way into his mouth and held it open. His energy was depleted so much that there was barely a fight of resistance.

Alistair's ethereal body floated into the prisoner (once he was close to unconsciousness, when there'd be the least resistance), in a body of black smoke. He travelled down his throat from his mouth, through his ears and nostrils - anywhere on his naked body that had an opening. The body jerked slightly at the new sensation, then stilled, then pulled itself upright of its own accord. The possession was complete.

The king smirked as he watched his newly possessed brother run his hands all over his body, exploring his new form. More blood and puss oozed from the wounds as he moved, but there was no registration of pain. Both curiously and disgustedly, Alistair stroked the prisoner's penis, and then grasped it roughly. He pumped it a few times, enjoying the feel of this man's body and the sensation. The penis twitched in his hold; the court and he jeered, while some others leered crudely at the man's body.

The king watched those leering in an equally lustful manner, and noted who they were within his court. _Maybe I'll start dishing out rewards, _he thought; but he didn't know which side he'd be rewarding – the demons or his brother. He looked over his brother once more, lingering on his semi-erect penis. "I'll ask you one more time, _brother_." The court laughed. "_Where is my sister?_"

"She's...she's hiding. With the other rebel forces," he replied, his voice as strong as ever. "Clary is under close watch; we know that you have demons looking for her, to bring her to you. She knows the offers that you'll make to have her, and they all know that she will accept them."

"Yes, yes," the king said exasperatedly. "But _where_ - where is she hiding?"

"Only her guards knew. There have been some rumours that she escaped her guards and is making her way to your palace, to accept your offers."

The king contemplated what had been said. "I want the scouts tripled," he said lustfully. "I want the vanguard assembled. We are going to increase our searches across the countryside; we are going to murder, burn, possess and rape any and all villages in our wake. Whatever drives her faster to us. We will leave destruction in our wake, caused only by the foolishness of the Shadowhunters that have defied my rule."

He stood up suddenly and gazed around at his cheering court. They loved him. And they would love his sister too. They were Morgensterns; they were warriors; as beautiful and fierce as Lucifer, where their namesake had originated.

Who was better to rule over demons than a Morgenstern?

"We will find her," he muttered crazily to himself. "She will come home."

_Home?_ He thought suddenly. _Home. Am I home?_ He looked around pensively. He was indeed home; his old home, before his mother had abandoned him. Morgenstern Manor. It wasn't really his home, he knew, but it was the home of the Morgensterns and that is where he and his sister should be. He didn't think there was any other example of being home.

The king nodded and Alistair fled the body, going back into his own corporeal form in the same black smoke. The prisoner fell back to his knees, crying out in pain and the repulsion he felt for informing the king of Clary's whereabouts, as well as the unwanted fondling from the demon that'd possessed him.

"Thank you, brother," the king said jovially, pleased with his new information. He stood up from his throne and commanded quiet from his followers. "For his valuable information and as proof of my generosity, I would like to welcome my brother, Jonathan Herondale, into my court. He will be treated for all wounds, and, once healed; he will be given freedom privileges around the court. He will be treated with respect, as the next in line."

They stared at their new prince, silent for a few moments. This, in front of them, was a boy with no demon blood within him - only the blood of angels. Yet, they knew that this Angel Boy was also Valentine's son, and would've been raised in the same manner as their current king - they knew themselves that it wasn't hard to revert back to previous lifestyles. They knew and trusted that their king would train his successor to follow in his footsteps.

All of a sudden, there was a flood of noise that washed over everyone.

The king was pleased.

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><p><strong>Please review to get this story rolling!<strong>


	2. Rules

**A/N - Thank you so much to those 5 reviews on my first chapter of this story! I'll be honest - I wasn't really expecting to have 5 on the first chapter, but thank you!**

**So, as I said last time, I'm going to introduce review goals before the next new chapter is uploaded. So, the goal for this chapter is 6, since I recieved 5 without asking last chapter!**

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><p><em>"All kings are foes of all the men they rule."<br>_

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><p>It had scarcely been more than a month before the king's sister arrived, untouched by his guards and scouts, as he had ordered, at the palace gates.<p>

At the news of her arrival, he called together his court, despite it being in the early hours of the morning. He bade his medics to collect Jonathan from his room, and to dress him in some of his own less expensive finery; he was still feverish from some of the festered wounds that had yet to heal, but fine clothes could distract from that. Besides, they had to look nice for Clarissa's homecoming.

He, in fact, was so excited to see her again that he sent an order to his brother to go see her first, and make sure she knew how to act. He didn't want to have her possessed as well.

He also sent Jonathan with some expensive finery for her to change into, knowing that her clothes must have been covered in sweat, blood and dirt - and possibly torn - by now. He made sure to demand that the demon delivering his messages knew that under no circumstances was he to give his brother - to deliver to Clarissa - one of their mother's dresses.

She was not their mother. Their mother was a Fairchild; his sister was a Morgenstern.

"Your majesty," his sister said through gritted teeth. She was kneeling on the steps before him, head bent stiffly in submission. There were no guards flanking her as there had been with his brother, when he had first arrived. "King Jonathon."

The king smiled salaciously at her, though she couldn't see; his brother, on the other hand, who was standing to the left of his throne could, as well as his court.

His court was unusually quiet ever since she strutted in the hall, dressed in the robes he had given her; it remained so, even as the king reached over to his brother and gripped his upper thigh. His brother looked down at him disgustedly, but after a few months in his court, the king was more than satisfied that he had understood and accepted how it worked.

He had understood and learned enough to tell his love how act before him. Like a trained puppy.

Clarissa still couldn't see what was happening as the king caressed his brothers leg once, twice, three times, before taking it away. "Sister," King Jonathon said, rising from his throne. "I see you've made it home in one piece."

"This is _not_ my home and I am ashamed to have _you_-" She spat suddenly, her head still bent towards the floor.

The king grinned wickedly, but he wasn't the one to interrupt her. Nor was it one of the demons in his court.

"Clary," his brother hissed. "_Stop_."

Clary's head shot up to glare at the only person who she thought would be on her side, in this monstrous place. "Traitor," she growled under her breath, staring straight at him.

Next to him, his brother went stiff. The grip he had on his seraph blade tightened.

"My, my, Sister, you have quite the mouth on you," he said teasingly. Her head shot back down at his voice to stare at the floor, cautiously watching the demons either side of her. He rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "Clarissa, do stand up and look your family in the eyes. Let me see how life on the run has treated you."

Slowly, as if the demons surrounding her would attack her at the slightest move, she stood. The dress that he had given her pooled around her feet and hugged her figure nicely; Jonathon was impressed. He had thought that she would've been skinnier and more raggedy after all her time spent hiding - but her hair didn't look half as matted or dirty as he would've expected and the dress didn't look overly baggy.

She looked wonderful and royal; a perfect addition to his court, and the perfect person to be standing next to him for the years to come.

"You look incredible, dear sister." He smirked smugly. "You'll have to tell me, Clarissa, as I was never truly your brother – were you ever taught the poem for the Shadowhunter's colours? Do you know why we're wearing these colours today?"

"No," she said shortly. "It wasn't necessary to my training."

"Oh yes, your _'__training__'_. We'll have to see how thorough your training has been after you've settled in here; our brother here could tell you several things that he's been re-taught that's actually improved his fighting skills. Institute training is nothing compared to family tactics that have been passed down..." He said aloofly, satisfied with himself and secure in the knowledge that he did not even need to lie in front of his family. If he kept his lying to a minimum in the beginning, then when he would have to start creating excuses and lying to one another, they wouldn't be as suspicious.

Just as the king had expected, Jonathan bent his head slightly in embarrassment.

"In any case, Sister, the blue on our robes is for the return of the lost, which just so happens to be you. I do suppose, however, that the actual line from the ode says "blue banners when the lost return" – but we were unprepared for a procession." He gestured widely across the sea of demons around her, including the entire length of the building in which they were standing. "Welcome home, Clarissa."

She bit her tongue and glared hard at her brother. She would've spoken out against him once more, about where her true home was and how she feels only shame at the thought of him being descended from the same bloodline as her, but she didn't want to relive the feeling of betrayal that she had had when Jace had quietened her.

Alternatively, "our brother", as he seemed to be going by these days. Clary couldn't help but feel disgust at the thought of him allowing Jonathon to call him that name, and obediently standing there next to him, looking like a loyal personal guard.

She didn't understand what he was playing at.

Unless her brother had actually managed to persuade him into trusting him, as had her father had once. It didn't seem surprising in that thought; her brother had once convinced her that he wasn't completely psychotic whilst they were travelling around together - with a possessed Jace – and her brother, obviously, had inherited the same charm their father had. What she couldn't – wouldn't –believe, was that Jace had been naive enough to be genuinely tricked into it.

She pointed at yellow-ish coloured flowers that trailed up the hem of her dress. "And what about this? What is this colour representing?"

His dark eyes glittered. "Oh, _that," _he said gleefully.

For a moment, Clary had thought he was going to mock her for being stupid, because there were no plain blue dresses for her to wear to her own apparent 'homecoming', but now it seemed to be about something that he was incredibly proud of. She could see that even Jace, who she assumed had become used to the ways of Jonathon's demon court, tried not to look at her, already knowing the answer.

She shuddered to think of what it could be.

"That colour, dear, is saffron. It represents the victory march," he proudly stated. She was sickened to see his eyes briefly flick in the direction of Jace. "Of course, there are technicalities with the phrasing of that too, but alas, this isn't an event to be pedantic about."

The demons around her had suddenly burst to life, cawing and hissing in what she assumed to be the equivalent of cheering. Some were becoming unnervingly close to her, causing her to feel especially vulnerable, as she was in a dress and free of any weapons; to make matters worse, she was severely outnumbered. She couldn't even count on Jace helping her out of the disaster anymore - not until she had a chance to speak with him.

"Victory?" She quickly said, hoping that if she kept talking with her brother, his attention could remain focused on what was happening around her. She hoped that she could at least count on his protection; it would've been pointless if he let her die now. "What victory? You haven't won anything. Shadowhunters won't listen to you-!"

"Clary, _please_," Jace said for the second time. He looked pained to do it, but she had caught him looking to Jonathon for instruction in the moments before.

"I would hate to imprison you, dear sister, so soon after you returned home," the king said, deathly low. "I'd watch what you say to your new king."

She was only fuelled on by Jace's betrayal.

"Shadowhunters don't _have _kings! Who decided _you _were righteous enough to rule over the rest of us? You're a _demon! _A hybrid of the things we _kill _and the shittiest-"

Jonathon was standing now, his arm thrown in front of Jace, as if to block him from running down the few steps to where Clary was. His grin was devilish as the demons surrounding her knocked her to the floor and evaded her attempts at attacking them, accidentally ripping her dress in their frenzy. She was quickly quietened and restrained, but Jonathon could hardly say that during the restraint, most injuries inflicted upon her were necessary – not that he was going to say anything against it, of course.

He was the king, after all, and he could not – _would not_ – be anything less than impartial to his sister.

"Kings, Clarissa, do not wait for the approval of lesser people to come into their kingdom. _They take it_," he lustfully proclaimed, looking down at her kneeling on the stairs. "That, baby sister, is why we have wars in the first place." He cocked his head to the side, smiling mockingly. "Maybe you'll actually learn something in training."

"Jonathon," Jace hissed next to him, looking at Clary's struggling body on the floor. "She's hurt."

And she was. Blood was oozing from multiple wounds in her legs and there was a particularly dark patch of blood on the side of her dress; still, if there was considerable pain, she definitely didn't show it, they way that she was continuously wriggling about.

The king screwed up his face, looking considerably boyish. "If you are going to be a part of this court, Sister – and you will – you have certain things to learn," he said. He walked down his few steps and knelt in front of Clary, grasping her chin in his hand and forcing her to look at him. "First and foremost: I am your king; but I am also your brother, and you, as for now, are my heir. I deserve to be treated with the appropriate respect that befits my position above you, and I will give you the same."

"Bullshit," she spat through her squashed lips.

He tightened his hold on her face. "If you don't believe me, then you can ask your precious Golden Boy. He learnt the rules quickly, dear, and he was left alone with no restrictions to his freedom in place. Now, you will also re-start your training with Golden Boy, with me as your teacher; and when I require and request you, you will stay with me until you are dismissed. My demon comrades shall be left alone and untouched – if one attacks you, you will bring the matter up with me, _as your king_, rather than dismantling it by yourself."

"Anything else, dear _brother?" _She asked sarcastically.

"Don't make me take away your freedom of speech," he said quietly. "Anything else that's worth learning, you'll learn yourself soon enough. I won't immediately begin interrogating you about where your other fellow vigilantes are hiding, but you better not let your mouth get you into something your ass can't handle, otherwise you might find their hiding spots aren't as undetectable as you might imagine, with Hell-Hounds on your side." He roughly let go of her face and walked back towards his throne. He stood there for a moment, watching his little sister struggle in their hands, before turning around and ordering Jace to follow him out of the chamber to continue his training.

"Clean her up and send her to me when you're done. I want her ready for training," the king called as he left the room.

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><p><strong>AN - As I said at the top, I'm hoping for at least 6 reviews before I upload the new chapter! Thank you guys!**


	3. Training

**A/N - Holy shit! I asked for 7 and I got 9! Technically that doesn't seem like a lot more than I set the goal for, but 2 extra reviews always mean a lot! Thank you! It also should've meant that I uploaded this quicker, but life held me up for a few days.**

**So, I'm setting the review goal to one more than what I recieved, like last time - therefore, 10 reviews are needed for the next chapter!**

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><p><em>"The foremost art of kings is the ability to endure hatred."<em>

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><p>The breath was knocked out of her the moment she hit the floor, and she struggled to pull herself back up and continue fighting. What wounded her pride even more was the fact that this was not the first time she had been floored.<p>

The first, which was arguably an unfair 'flooring' as she hadn't been ready for any kind of assault, was when she had refused to play her brother's game of "training" on the basis that it would be fruitless for as long as she stayed in his 'palace'.

He had an army - she didn't even have Jace.

It was her brother, of course, who had lazily feigned a punch to her face and then knocked her legs out from under her whilst she was distracted. He had laughed heartily; though, to her rising ire, not unkindly. It was as if she was a funny Shadowhunter child who was trying to be her mother or father in the battlefield.

She supposed, grudgingly, that she was.

After, he had helped her up from the floor and asked her to - or more like told her - to reconsider denying receiving training, he called over Jace to the centre of the training room to demonstrate further his point of it being useful. In the manner of a loyal friend, Jace silently walked over to his brother, who was selecting throwing knives from a nearby rack, and assessed the wooden targets on the wall, then the Shadowhunter-esque mannequins partially obscuring them.

"Dear Sister, do you remember when you were training with Jonathan in the New York Institute not so long ago, that he could hardly hit several consecutive targets on an object?"

There was a pause as she recalled it. "Yes," she said slowly, looking towards the boy in question for reassurance. She thought she saw a long-forgotten smirk on his lips.

"Of course you do. You see, Jonathan's strength was in physical combat - not in aiming at targets," he said seriously, as if he was now the instructor of his own combat school. "Unsurprisingly, he did not use a bow or throwing knives when in battle. However, after I gave our brother a few family tips on hitting far away targets, it was evident that despite your apparent love for the Institute, you needed the type of training that no one there could provide." He tossed four knives to Jace, who caught them effortlessly. Jonathon then took a stance in between Jace and Clary, half facing the targets in front of him, and halfway turned to continue informing Clary. "We are Morgensterns. You and I, Sister, we have Morgenstern blood - we would've taken to our family's training like a duck to water, if we had been raised differently, together. Yet, me and Jonathan have had snippets of Morgenstern training in our childhood, which would've been easily forgotten when we were abandoned; but it's also easily remembered."

As if this demonstration had been planned, Jace threw two knives from his right hand, two from his left, and did an elaborate spin before releasing the fifth. Each of them stuck in the inner ring - the bulls-eye of the target with deadly precision and aim.

Clary was amazed. Amazed at how Jonathon trusted Jace enough to equip him with knives and show him how to kill a long-distance target; amazed at how Jace accepted and improved drastically through this 'training' that her (their?) brother was supplying. Yet, she was both amazed and disappointed that Jace had upheld the trust and respect between the both of them, and hadn't thrown a knife straight for his heart.

"How?" Clary breathed. She didn't believe that her brother had welcomed Jace into his palace with open arms, and equipped him with weapons without gaining his trust. Surely, that must have taken a few weeks; Jace would've fought in his rule, wouldn't he? His aim and precision couldn't have improved that suddenly; he hadn't been captured for long, had he?

"Jonathon - our brother," Jace corrected, eyeing him out the corner of his eye as their brother fiddled with the knives in his hands. "He showed me a trick. He'd watched me train for a few days, and one day, he came up to me and said that there was nothing wrong with my technique - but that I didn't follow my shot through. He told me that fear binds a killer to its prey, and the knife that I'm throwing - or the arrow I'm releasing - connects us both as if by a silver cord. I am my weapon. There is no distance between me and the weapon."

" How...poetic," she sneered in the direction of her brother. She turned back towards Jace. Dubiously she asked, "And it worked, just like that?"

She still remembered the trouble he went through occasionally at the Institute, trying to perfect his aim, so that he could be an all-rounded killer. Alec, who was as good a shot as any Shadowhunter she had ever met, couldn't even minutely improve his precision.

"Just like that," Jace confirmed.

"You see, Sister? I don't wish to punish or hurt you. I only wish to teach you - as I am with Jonathan – the more effective styles of combat and techniques, as well as furthering your basic knowledge on Shadowhunter history. Especially since now, the three of us will be making it." He smiled excitably. "That's all your training is."

"Yes, but _why_? What is the purpose of this 'training'? What are you training us _for_?" Clary stressed, hating that she had no choice but to accept.

"For your friends, Clarissa," he replied patiently. He twirled one of his own three knives in his hand, fingering the tip of it. "When they do arrive, you will need to fight with my army for your lives - as will I, as will my demons. Your friends, Clarissa - how do I put it? While my army is still purging the land, so that I may start my kingship with a country that has been rid of the poisoned and poisoning individuals, you and Golden Boy have safe refuge in my palace. When they tear down my gates, they will only be thinking about how you left them out there, in their burning city, whilst you lived a life of luxury with your "evil" brother. They know that the two of you are here, and they know I'm not dead yet."

He turned around so that he completely faced the targets now, but he continued speaking. "There are three of us, the last Morgensterns. We have only each other; I know you don't believe me, Clary, but I don't need either of you dead - or at all - I want the both of you here." He threw the first knife all of a sudden, causing Clary to flinch; it spiralled in the air and struck the Shadowhunter mannequin in the head. "The two of you are going to help me by giving ideas and advice on what to do with our new kingdom. If all else fails and it is only one of us at the end, then, as my heirs, you will inherit this kingdom and rule it as you wish - which is why you will participate in training. So that, when the time comes, you'll be ready. But until you two- _the meek_ - inherit the earth, it belongs to me and I will rule as I see fit."

He threw the next knife a second after he finished his sentence, and it landed in the mannequin's gut. "I don't want to torture either of you, but if you forget your place and the rules then I may see no other choice. However, I still see no reason to kill you if that should happen - I would only be ridding the Morgenstern line and myself of heirs. You see, Clarissa, we are the last of our line - and Jonathan, similarly, is the last of the Herondales. Quite the dilemma, isn't it?"

"Quite," she echoed hollowly, already knowing where his train of thought was going.

"With our respective fathers dead, I see no other way it could possibly continue without us." He ran the pad of his thumb up the last knife's blade, pressing hard enough to tear skin. A bead of blood, which Clary was mildly surprised to see was black, ran down the steel. "If we follow our father's original plans, then it should be you, Clarissa, and Jonathan to continue the Morgenstern line - and create a new, stronger breed of Shadowhunters. That, coincidentally, would also serve to make sure that the royal family - us - are superior to the others. Nevertheless, after collecting father's studies from his safe, I was able to further discover that you and I, dear sister, would have also been used to create a new Shadowhunter species."

"You're lying," Clary seethed. Her anger suddenly spiked as she realised what he had been insinuating. Their father was a sadistic bastard, a liar, and almost as psychotic as his son (his son, evidently, was the craziest) - but Clary was willing to bet that he would never have condoned or encouraged incestuous behaviour between his two children, even to complete his goals. "Valentine did not experiment on his children so that they could-"

Clary could hardly bear to finish her sentence.

"Our father, Clarissa, was a scientist in his own right. One of his investigations was behind finding ways to breed Shadowhunters and demons together, so that he could combine their more useful traits. However, it was already known that sexual activities between demons and Shadowhunters can cause particular diseases, such as Demon Pox, and anything created from it would be stillborn. However, I'm not a full demon, am I, Clarissa? Who's to say that it wouldn't work? And who's to say that it would be any less powerful or able that anything you and Jonathan might produce?"

_"__I would rather-"_

"Whatever promise you're about to make, Clarissa, I hope to the Angel that you're prepared to follow it through. I don't particularly tolerate empty promises," he said teasingly, but Clary could hear the underlying threat to his voice. "And, by the Angel, I hope you aren't going to say what I think you are, because you're the only one who I will allow to bear the future sons and daughters of the Morgenstern Kingdom."

"I would rather _die_, than bear your spawn, Jonathon," she finished, proudly.

He _tsked_ unhappily. "I won't be the one to do it, Sister, when the time comes." He looked pointedly at Jace from the corner of his eyes. Jace looked as defeated as Clary felt in this hellhole. Yet, she still couldn't let herself believe that he could ever follow through with one of Jonathon's orders – king, lifesaver, brother or not. She couldn't let herself let go of the idea that Jace was only playing her brother, as he had once played them. And if it was because of a rune? Well, he had overcome it and she had destroyed it the first time – they could do it again. "Golden Boy will," he confirmed, as if neither of them understood what he had meant.

_"_I will_ never _allow myself to be put in the situation where I am_ pregnant _with your demonic offspring!" She said, outraged. "The time will never come! I will kill myself before you have the chance to lay one filthy finger-"

He laughed, and Jace looked uncomfortable. It was as if he wanted to interject, but he couldn't. _Why couldn't he? _"Do you want to die, Clary?" He asked humorously. She only glared at him in response. "It certainly sounds like it," he answered anyway. "If now is the time to be making promises, then I will make one of my own. I will never rape you Clarissa, as you probably expect me to do eventually; I need your trust and loyalty, and sexually assaulting you seems like a fine way of losing it."

Clary felt disgusted. "Are you implying - you sick bastard - that I will come to you _willingly_?"

He merely smiled. The king turned his head minutely to the side to address Jace. "And you, Brother, what is your promise? Perhaps we can help each other achieve their goals, like a supportive, functional family," he said mockingly.

"I hope..." he started, unsure of how to continue. " I _hope_..."

"Ah, a prayer in the world of promises," he commented.

Clary watched Jace carefully as he racked his brain for a way to finish his so-called prayer. It was as if he was trying to find a different - a new, better way of saying what he wanted to say, as if it might offend Jonathon. She pitied him a little; he must've been a prisoner here for a while, if he was tiptoeing around "the king" so carefully, when she was actively saying whatever she thought.

Jonathon, on the other hand, had shifted his body around to curiously wait on what his "brother" had to say. Clary could tell that he was only doing this to mock her and Jace further with their dreams, which they could never achieve, thanks to their new king, while in Idris. It was cruel.

After a few moments, Jonathon sighed dramatically and walked over to the targets to retrieve their knives and replace them on the rack. "Come now, Jonathan. The world is a clock winding down, after all," he said impatiently. "No promise is worth that-"

"I hope that I am the last out of this place," he said quietly, interrupting Jonathon for the first time. Jonathon was the first to react to his promise, grinning wickedly at Jace. He even walked back to Jace and Clary somewhat smugly.

"Oh, Brother, that _is_ a vague promise you've made," he said slyly. "I hope that I'm still around to see the outcome of this promise."

_Me too_, thought Clary.

Without waiting for a response of any form from either of them, and threw the last knife. Clary gasped, having forgotten about his little game; Jonathon smiled wider in return. It struck the mannequin in the heart.

"Lastly, as you will soon discover, we are more than heirs to each other and family. Our own individual actions have effects on one another, and so now is not the time to be selfish. We must be one soul," he said. "I expect that to be understood." He bowed his head, careful not to let his crown - which was unnoticeably too large for his own head - to slip. "That is the end to your introduction to training, Sister. Your proper training starts in a week, with Jonathan, and I hope that you improve from how you were today. You are free to go back to your room, and are to stay there until I decide to allow you the freedom privileges. Jonathan," he said, turning to him. "I'll see you tomorrow. You're welcome to stay here and continue training - perhaps you'll overthrow me next time."

With a flourish, he walked out of the training room. Clary saw this moment to speak to Jace alone, and was so excited that she didn't give a thought about Jonathon wanting to segregate them, purposely. Before she had a chance to say anything to Jace, one of Jonathon's personal guards had come in and dragged her out.

Jace watched her go sadly.

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><p><strong>AN - 10 reviews for the next chapter, please! The reviews have been great so far, and surpassing every goal that I set! Thank you!**


	4. Brothers

**A/N - I shouldn't really be uploading this chapter, as last chapter was quite far away from its review goal (only 4! But thank you to those 4). Perhaps I should just keep it at a constant amount every time. Either way, this chapter was created through major procrastination of revision for exams.**

**7 reviews for next chapter!**

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><p><em>"Divine right of kings means the divine right of anyone who can get uppermost."<em>

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><p>"Take a seat, Jonathan."<p>

He obeyed, settling into his weekly seat in front of Jonathon's desk. His so-called brother merely studied him, eyes barely lifting from one of his usual, top-secret (so secret, he had never once hinted to him about its contents) documents that he was scanning, as he relaxed into the wooden chair opposite him.

The king waved away his guards that had accompanied him, preferring - always preferring - to be alone with each other. It was a time when the king could gain a true understanding of how Jonathan was coping, especially with the arrival of their sister, and how committed he was to their cause.

"Have you given more thought to what I asked of you the other day?" The king asked, sounding bored.

"No," Jace replied shortly. Quietly. "But you are the king; it's your choice, of course."

The king grunted, and scribbled harsher on his papers. A long silence stretched between them. Jace was reluctant to move - or do anything - other than stay put in his chair and uncomfortably fidget until he was given a direct order from Jonathon.

He heard papers ruffling, but Jace was no longer seeing. He was staring straight ahead of himself, thinking about everything that had passed. How he had gotten here; not necessarily to the Morgenstern Manor – but how he had gotten to this point in his life where he and his half-demonic (for all intents and purposes) stepbrother met up on a weekly basis, where they discussed his dictatorship and Jace didn't do anything to hinder his plans.

The king delivered a sharp blow to his shin from under his desk. Jace supposed he looked surprised, exactly what his brother was aiming for, he suspected, as he smirked and said, "Ah, so you're not having a stroke. Nice to know you're still with us, brother."

"I was only thinking, Jonathon," he said.

Jonathon snorted. "Thoughts are dangerous," he murmured. "Be careful what you do with them." He then picked up his papers and shuffled them about on his desk, then slid them into the top drawer. "Well?" He asked impatiently, raising an eyebrow. "Do I have to go get the entertainment every week? You know where it's kept – and don't forget the drinks."

Happy to finally have something to do other than sit in his chair, he quickly got up and retreated to the back of his office, to where the drinks cabinet was and the secret hatch in where he kept an old, wooden chessboard. Jace grabbed the board and the whiskey, and retreated back to his seat. Jonathon relaxed in his chair as his brother set out their usual activity.

The king smirked. "Dear brother, it doesn't matter what colour piece you are; it won't help you win." Jonathon was always white; he was the king, and therefore he always made the first move in any battle – wits, war, women.

"Maybe your skill lies in you making the starting move."

"The skill, Jonathan, lies in having control. You have to make sacrifices – but not useless ones that won't contribute to your overall win. The sacrifices you make have to be worth it. You, brother, never win because you see every soldier in your army as indispensable – that's not true, obviously. All you need is your king; without your king, the game is lost - every other player in between can easily be thrown away."

"Am I disposable?" Jace asked suddenly.

His brother paused purposely, already knowing his answer (of course. He was the king. He had to know every answer) but wanting to create uncertainty inside Jace. He always needed Jace to be uncertain; if he was not uncertain, then he would be able to understand what he was doing here. He would understand what was going to happen, if he didn't already suspect it slightly now.

Yet he was uncertain, so he wouldn't ever act on it.

"Nearly everyone is. Yes. You are," he said smoothly.

"And Clary – is she?"

The king's head jerked sharply, and his black eyes connected with his. As soon as the words left his mouth, he knew he had made mistake. Phantom aches and pains danced across his body. He winced.

"Clarissa-" He tried to correct.

"Clarissa," he growled, confirming her name. He said it again, as if to reassure himself and Jace of her name. "I'd watch yourself now, brother."

He knew that Jonathon had a problem with the nickname "Clary" – they had spoken about it before, and it had been direct and clipped and threatening enough for Jace to know that he had severely pissed him off. He would have to tread lightly from now on, other he could easily make it worse for himself. It wasn't something that he had the habit of wanting to repeat.

Better to grovel now, Jace supposed. Kings liked it when their subjects groveled; it made them feel even more powerful. "I'm sorry-"

"Stop," Jonathon snapped. He huffed angrily.

_Perhaps_, Jace thought, _Jonathon had been too insulted this time by my ignorance_. His mouth opened and closed multiple times, like a gaping fish. He looked stupid. He was always looking stupid.

"Are you going to play? Or sit there like a fool? I don't invite you here for your presence. You're here to play chess with me."

Startled and nervous, Jace quickly moved a pawn without surveying the rest of the board. Jonathon rolled his eyes and snatched away a bishop that should have been moved instead. Jace cast his eyes down.

The king took a long gulp of his whiskey. "Jonathan, what are we playing?" He asked, as he waited for Jace to regain his wits and move his pieces.

"Chess," came his short reply.

"No." Another white piece was taken off the board and into the king's hands. "_What are we playing_?"

"The game of kings," he tried again.

"Good." Jace thought he would have smirked, but he knew that he was too angry to smirk now. "Why?"

_Because it shows me how trapped Clary and I are in this castle. We are the white pieces and you are the black. Whether we play first or second, we always play into your hand. You will win. You win the game of kings at every turn_. "I don't know," he muttered.

"Don't be idiotic. I have told you this."

He shrugged, knowing somewhere in his heart that he shouldn't have, that he will only get in trouble with Jonathon for it. "It seems pointless."

"If you want to learn how to rule kings, brother, this is how you do it. Unfortunately," he added, "you don't have a desperate desire to take up the mantle."

"You're the king," he responded, almost robotically.

"Yes," he hissed, eyes sparkling with an inner joy. "I am the king."

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><p>They played for a few minutes more – until Jonathon upheld his title as champion – and Jace was encouraged to drink more whiskey – which he did, not wanting to upset Jonathon any further. Finally, Jonathon, feeling that he had gotten Jace into a more favourable state, began to question him on what they had previously discussed.<p>

However, previously – when the king had brought it up a few weeks ago, first before Clarissa's arrival, and then continually in the following weeks - Jace had clammed up at the mere thought it. He wouldn't utter anything that sounded as if it would disrespect him in the slightest. A shy, complacent Jace wasn't what he wanted at all – that was _too easy_.

"Now, brother," he started smoothly. "As you very well know, you are the heir to my throne; second in line for it, naturally."

Jace nodded, looking dazed but content.

"Every king needs an heir. Am I correct? That's their main worry. Nevertheless, I already have an heir - two, in fact. However, we are not safe in this Manor, as I've recently discovered; the rebels are gathering forces and are preparing to attack. What happens if you and Clarissa are captured? Or worse - murdered? I need another reassurance that this Kingdom will stay in the family, as a monarchy is supposed to. I need you to do another favour for me, little brother."

"A... an heir of an heir," he slurred.

"A nephew." Jonathon nodded. "A little prince - or princess, of course! I want you to have your own safety net, your own heir."

"With Clary." It sounded more like a statement than a question, which Jonathon assumed was what he meant.

He had to restrain himself from backhanding him hard enough for him to fall off his chair. "No, not with Clarissa." He emphasised her name. "With one of my faithful subjects - a princess in their own land of Edom."

He nodded sagely. "A demon."

"Yes." He poured Jace more whiskey, which he gladly took. "I need to see if my father was right is his theory, as well. He wrote that your extra angelic blood might improve the chances of crossbreeding with a demon. Imagine the power that child would have. Heirs to two kingdoms; a Shadowhunter's skill with demon savagery; immune to seraph blades; able to create angelic and demonic runes. And, overall, _a Morgenstern." _

That was mostly a lie, of course, but there were truths. The king did need more heirs than he already had, and an intoxicated Jace (a sober Jace could work, but his mind wasn't as easy) would do anything to aid his big brother's rule – especially if it meant being safe.

Moreover, the king needed to see how far-fetched his father's breeding theories may be, so he could start with Clarissa. He had a lot of work to do with her first, however, but he didn't expect that to take long. Before the rebels became too close to the Manor, he hoped.

"A Morgenstern," he whispered to himself wonderingly. He shook his head. "But...I'm not a Morgenstern unless..."

Jonathon tried to be patient. "Unless - you do this favour for me, as my brother and your ruler."

"_Unless_," Jace said emphatically. "Unless I married Cl-_Clarissa. _You said. You promised."

The king grinded his teeth. "Kings _lie, _Jonathan," he hissed. "Besides, you promised that you would die before you married her, stay in this court of your own free will or give up her location – and so far, you have done two of those – _yet you're still alive. _Call that a generosity of a king."

Jace blinked and nodded. He looked upset that he had said such things, but it wasn't as if Jonathon cared much about the feelings of his brother. He had denied having Clarissa, which meant she was his for the taking; his to marry, to make love to, his to control.

His brother trembled in his seat.

"Brother," he started again with a silky voice. He stood up from his seat and moved over to where Jace was sitting, on the opposite side of his desk, and leaned against it. This was a time when he knew he had to be purposely persuasive, and over the course of time with Jace, he knew exactly how to adapt himself. He tousled Jace's hair with brotherly affection. "As a king is this new world, I have the power to _make _you a Morgenstern. Jonathan Christopher Morgenstern; Jace Morgenstern. You would succeed Clarissa as heir, and your son or daughter would also succeed her." He picked up the decanter and poured Jace another round, handing it to him slowly. Behind his brother, he beckoned someone into the room. They walked in quietly; Jace did not notice. The king held his brother face in his calloused hands, looking deep into his eyes.

Slowly and thankfully, Jonathon saw Jace looking hopeful and trusting - like a puppy looks to its master.

"You said it was my decision as king, brother, and you're right. It is. Moreover, I _want_ this to happen, preferably with your consent or moral obligation as my subject and family. You'll be important to me and this kingdom – _important. _You'll no longer be disposable."

Jace hollowly repeated words.

Brother.

Important.

Disposable.

Important. Important. _Important_.

"Yes." The king nodded. "Important. If you choose not to accept this proposal, however, Jonathan, then I fear we may be back to square one." Now, the king looked at his brother mournfully, as if he was pained and sorry to consider it. "You remember how much it..._hurt _me to keep you down there, as a brother, Jonathan? With all the prisoners and traitors..."

"It was dark. So dark," Jace agreed.

He nodded. "Yes. It was. Dark times for me as well."

Jace was no longer drinking. Instead, he was staring off into the distance; out the window opposite him, to where fire still burned on the hills of Idris, looking more illuminated than it usually did, now that it was night. The screaming had stopped a few weeks ago, but Jace remembered the screaming. He'd always remember the screaming.

However, Jace now felt that he understood. Perhaps if the Clave was more organised and had an interest in their people's safety, then the last Shadowhunters may feel as he did now. The Clave could've stopped this. They could've ended this.

But they let their people die.

The king huffed and pushed off from the desk. "Perhaps, little brother, you better go to sleep in your chambers. You look tired. We'll put this on hold and continue it some other day." When Jace struggled to get up, he beckoned the guard closer to them to help Jace hobble to his chambers whilst the king turned to the window Jace was previously staring out of, and listened to the noise below the window, where extra soldiers were being sent out to join the battle. Jonathon longed to go with them, it having been months since he fought amongst his cavalry, but he had yet to finish with Jonathan or Clarissa.

"And – Jonathan?" The boy grunted. "This has nothing to do with my sister, so leave Clarissa out of it. You are training with her tomorrow afternoon - don't forget. Good. And remember what I said about training sessions, brother; I don't want anyone to get any ideas regarding my benevolence.

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><p><strong>AN - 7 reviews for the next chapter please!**


	5. Chess

**A/N - Thank you to the 8 that reviewed last chapter! I can see that quite a few people are becoming curious as to what happened to Jace, and maybe even have some ideas about what has happened - but what happened to him won't be explained for a while. Until then, I suppose you'll have to enjoy the behaviour of the new Jace.**

**7 reviews for next chapter!**

**(Here's to the last Saturday of the year!)**

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><p><em>"Power makes you a monarch, and all the fancy robes in the world won't do the job without it."<br>_

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><p>Clary wondered whether all their training sessions were going to be this inane – or, better yet, whether she'd ever get a choice to attend. She'd take such pleasuring in denying his 'generous invitation'.<p>

However, Clary felt like even with a choice she'd still attend. Maybe she would discover what Jonathon was doing, or what exactly his and Jace's dynamic was now – or she could even stumble upon the perfect opportunity to kill her brother.

"Check," Jace announced, turning his demonic stallion around to march back along the board towards his brother. He hadn't been out for long; Jonathon had desperately tried to keep him in play as long as possible for whatever reason Clary could not comprehend, but she couldn't deny that it was a fierce display of violence and skill.

It was something that was designed to install fear and awe.

Clary hopelessly scanned the few players she had left, players that were trembling in their costumes, equipped with only the most basic of knives, swords, shields and bows, with the higher placed players being allowed to have their personal seraph blade for protection. Clary herself had been gifted with the same solid gold sceptre as her brother had, which was easily able to be used as a baton, but which was also hollowed out. She had also been given a shield with the Morgenstern family crest emblazoned on it, a bow, her seraph blade (which had been confiscated off her on her arrival) and two daggers strapped to her hips.

Out of everyone on the board, she was the most equipped.

As the game had progressed, she had watched as some of her players were wounded and others were largely untouched - but had watched the similar look of hopelessness creep into their bodies as they watched the massacre of friends and fellow rebels at their rivals. Particularly at the hands of Jace, who some of the Shadowhunters had met or known, on his hell-born beast. Their new, glorious king preferred to stand close to his original place at the back of the board, however, Clary could see, even from her place that he wanted to fight.

He wanted to fight _desperately_.

She felt sickened by this game and once more couldn't begin to understand how Jace was able to play with such deadliness and lack of remorse. When he was used to take her own players, like normal chess, they were not allowed to fight back; they were allowed to defend themselves with whatever they'd been given, but they _weren't _allowed to attack him. Some did, though – which was natural and fair when your life was in danger - and Clary would cringe in her place as Jace's eyes glinted and quickly ended their life. Him and Jonathon were only playing cat and mouse with her and her players, she knew, and it made her hate them even more.

She was ready to scream and order her king to kneel in surrender when she watched how Jace was defeated. She should've known, known that despite this game that her brother had created and the countless times she'd seen her own fighters die in futility or their victorious wins over his lesser demons, Jonathon would never allow Jace to die like everyone else. Clary could've taken the victory for herself, but it would've meant leaving her king undefended, so she sent one of her bishops instead. Her bishop was a stocky, red-haired man with a scar that spanned from his left temple to the right side of his chin, with two of his own seraph blades slung across his back and a spearhead attached to the butt of his crosier.

Jonathon allowed her bishop three well-placed, non-life-threatening blows to Jace and his stallion, before sending Jace off the board to continue refereeing the game. If she was in the place of her bishop, she liked to think that she would've risked her life to try to kill Jace and rid this awful kingdom of the present king's protégée. However, thankfully, she supposed, her bishop was more cautious and wiser than her, only slashing across the warhorse's side with his crosier, punching Jace across the face (breaking his nose) and dislocating his shoulder.

Her bishop was safe, but Jace wasn't nearly as wounded as he should be. He should be dead. Dead. Dead. Dead, like all of her fellow rebels fighting for their lives on this life-sized chessboard against Jonathon's demon army.

Against _him_, the traitor.

"Clarissa Morgenstern," Jace called, reining his warhorse towards her. Ugly, dead, hollowed-out eyes stared at her - at least, she assumed that it was looking at her. Nevertheless, who could really tell when it had no eyes to judge from? "It's your move."

"Yes, do hurry up, Clarissa," Jonathon joked from across the board. He twirled his sceptre that she knew hid arrows inside, though he hadn't yet used the bow slung across his back (she didn't think he'd use his arrows so close-range, but rather predicted that it was more for show), as he preferred to use the solid gold quiver as a baton. She hadn't quite expected it to be as effective as it was. "It's so _boring_ waiting."

"Uh." Her voice quivered; she hated herself for sounding weak in front of her players and brother(s). She was the Queen on her side of the board, gifted with her own crown and purple, velveteen cloak that hung off her shoulders. The crown - or tiara, as it was more likely - was smaller than Jonathon's was and wasn't decorated with gems, but instead properly sat atop her head and was pure silver.

She couldn't begin to think about where he had found them or whether Jace had his own too.

It was of no importance anyway, she had decided early on. She was responsible for the protection of her players, no matter whether it was a predetermined war. She had to _try_.

Everyone was spread out on the board. She had a young Shadowhunter pawn blocked by one of Jonathon's lesser demons, next to which, was his Queen that was currently checking her king in the opposite corner of the board. She could easily move her knight, who was sat atop a more mundane-looking horse, which was in front of his last bishop, but moving the knight wouldn't block the attack from the Queen, nor would it kill her.

The only play that Clary could see…The only one that would _work, _would be if she moved herself. It would be Queen versus Queen, but when – or _if – _Jonathon moved his to attack, then she would easily be sent off the board as he had done for Jace, and her king would once again be open for attack without any of her protection. Without her, what were the chances that a pawn, knight and king would win against her brother's 9 other pieces?

Well, to be fair to them, they never had a chance of winning right from the beginning. They were facing a better equipped demon army, with a king who had clearly planned and fought in countless battles, whereas Clary didn't have any experience of battle organisation whatsoever.

Clary picked up her dress and marched across the board to stand next to her king, carefully avoiding the dead bodies that scattered the path before her, and blocking the diagonal path. She expected Jonathon to send his Queen over to eliminate her and finish the game for once and for all, and he didn't disappoint. As with Jace, his Demon Queen was only allowed three strikes on her body before she was sent off, and Clary was only allowed to defend herself.

However, as the Queen prepared to strike, Clary took the opportunity to wedge her daggers into the chest of her enemy, and knock her and her crown to the floor with the butt of her sceptre. The demon hissed and spat, and pulled Clary's feet out from under her using her demon-metal whip before Clary could defend herself from it.

She screamed as it burned through the skin on her ankles, and cut deeper as Clary struggled to free herself of the restraint. Soon after being floored, Jace and Jonathon had left their posts, putting the game on pause as they took care of their little sister and punished his Queen for using demon-metal.

Clary could faintly hear that none of his army playing today were supposed to be using it – _especially _on his little sister, their _real _future Queen. Demon-metal was no _for _little angels like Clarissa; it wasn't for Jace either, as he decided to point out. He did not care that Clary was disregarding the rules by trying to kill the demon – she was young and inexperienced, he chalked it up to. She was _wild._

She was still screaming and crying and frantically clawing at the coil around her ankles, which was only burning and cutting her hands, when Jace pinned her down on the ground to stop her moving and used his knife to cut through the coil to free her legs. He did not calm her or pay any attention to her begging and pleas. Clary only screamed louder and begged more as the coil cut deeper from his movements.

"By the Angel, Clary won't you stop moving? Hold sti - _hold still. _You're only making it worse," Jace said through gritted teeth, looking back at her writhing body. Clary stopped as he asked long enough to watch his face twist into fury and turn back to what he was doing. A small tremor ran through his body.

Clary quietened as much as she could until it snapped, terrified of what she had seen on his face, and mystified at the way he had said Angel, so different from how he had said her nickname. Clary slipped from his lips as if it was something he wasn't supposed to say. Like a secret. Angel now sounded like a threat, much harsher than a simple curse.

Jonathon, on the other hand, was exacting his form of kingly justice against his Queen, and any of his other soldiers whom he had found carrying demon-metal as a weapon. She wasn't sure what his justice was, as she was pinned to the floor and her tears blurred her vision, but she didn't think he'd kill them, but there weren't any screams or sound of any kind.

Could he really spare anyone in his army? Was the supply of demons endless? She didn't understand or know.

However, as Jace pulled her shaking body into his arms to place on his horse, after slicing her free, she watched as Jonathon paused and looked at them. Black ichor was sprayed across his face, which was set into a determined and amused mask. The whip in his hand, which she noticed had JCM engraved on the handle, had long droplets of ichor running down it, which pooled on the chessboard. His crown, on his pale head, glowed brighter than it had ever did before.

He was the King of Demons. Not one moved from their place on the board as they watched him deal out the punishment, and even the one being punished did not cry out or shake or move, but Clary knew that it wasn't dead.

She stared at the King of Demons, from the arms of the prince, and the King stared back.

"Jonathan," he said calmly, then smiled. "Careful that no ichor touches her wounds, otherwise it'll become infected. This training session is over, for the both of you. You fought valiantly." He wiped his brow with the sleeves of his robe. "Take her back to my room – you know where everything is kept and what to do. Leave her there once she is settled and come back here to collect her last players, for they are also gallant and wounded."

"_No," _Clary protested, infuriated. There was no way that she was going to be locked in Jonathon's quarters whilst wounded and alone. And what of her acquaintances? She had to see that they were going to be safe while still trapped inside this castle.

Nevertheless, she was injured and much weaker that Jace and was unable to do anything as she was placed atop his warhorse. Quicker than she could fight back, Jace took away her tiara, bow, sceptre, shield and seraph blade and threw them on the floor by his feet. He then climbed on the horse behind her, caging her in his arms without a word, and rode them out of the grand hall.

Before they were completely out of earshot, Clary heard him call that he would see her later, and then returned to whipping.

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><p><strong>AN - 7 reviews for next chapter please! And I hope you all had a good Christmas and New Year!**


	6. Weapons

**A/N: Despite only having 6 reviews for the previous chapter, I decided to post this as I _did _have 9 for chapter 4 - and I wanted to this before next week, as I will be busy having mocks for the whole of it, and continuing into the week after. This is also why this is the longest chapter so far. I have to say that it shouldn't be greatly expected for all chapters to be this long, as it took a while for me to write this.**

**As per usual, 7 reviews for the next chapter please! (Or thereabouts).**

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><p><em>I must be cruel, only to be kind<em>

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><p>Jace left her as soon as she was comfortably deposited on Jonathon's bed, locking the door behind him and hurrying back to whatever Jonathon wanted him for.<p>

Or that was what she assumed.

Clary had passed out from pain (or blood loss, considering the state of his once-clean sheets) sometime between moving from the training room to the king's chamber. Once she regained consciousness, she discovered herself to be laid on the bed and alone in a spacious room.

It was too quiet in his chamber and minimally decorated; she expected there to be more signs of his kingship within his bedroom – or at least signs of life from when their father lived in his manor, but perhaps he and his son were more similar than she imagined – and Clary expected to be able to hear any chaos that was happening outside the room. She was also morbidly aware that she was unable to move or fight back, should Jonathon find her place on his bed too much to his liking; she had of course tried to swing her injured leg off the bed to see whether it would endure, but it was leaden and only covered with loose bandages. The pain was so strong that she had to stuff her fist in her mouth to muffle the screams.

It was what felt like hours later, when she was on the brink of sleep, did her brother seem to remember that he was to see her. She couldn't decide whether she was disappointed that he was without Jace or not, but she supposed that she was most likely to be safer with Jace in the room with her no matter his concerning allegiance.

Jonathon had shed his robe at some point on his walk to his room, as well as every weapon (except for the whip), but his horribly unfitted crown was still balanced on the top of his head, now looking duller due to the splotches of ichor that had been sprayed from the demon bodies. The black ichor had been smudged across his face too, from where he had tried to wipe it clean with the sleeves of his robe, and gave his black Shadowhunting gear a slimy sheen. Parts of him looked as if he had been rolling around in it.

"How are you feeling?" He asked distractedly, as he began to take off his hunting gear. (Clary realised with a startle that she had been the only one on the board that had not been clothed in hunting gear. Even the captured Shadowhunters had been clothed in their own gear.)

She wasn't quite sure whether she expected him to stop after he took off his bracers and greaves or not, but once he continued to strip himself of his leather jacket and replaced his trousers for a cleaner pair, Clary couldn't help but stare at the number of runes that he had spread across his torso, arms and even down his legs. The amount of black or silver ink upon his body only served to remind her of his Shadowhunter upbringing, so different to how her mother had raised her; but also showed her how much more experience he had, being two years older, in the Shadowhunter world. Some of the runes that he had drawn upon his body she didn't even recognise or understand, but still instinctually knew that they were angelic. Clary didn't even know whether her brother was also able to create his own runes or not, which was particularly concerning considering that he was demonic and the new rune creations on his body were angelic; she suspected Jace was behind it, but she had never known that he had that power.

Then, Jonathon shifted to the side to place his whip on his dresser, and she saw three, large, intersecting scars lining his back that were still so swollen that they looked as if they were new. It wasn't hard to tell that he had had them for a few years at the least, however, from the way he moved with ease, as if they weren't there. Clary briefly wondered what had caused them or _who _had done that to him as she looked to the ceiling when he turned back around to look at her, but in the very core of her being she knew that he deserved them.

"Are you feeling fatigue? Nausea? Excessive pain still? It should've died down by now," he listed, prompting Clary into an answer, as he moved over to his basin and washed the ichor off his face and hands.

Clary snorted. "As if you care," she spat.

He pouted playfully, turning to look at her over his bare shoulder, showing off his scars once again. "Will your views of me ever change, dear sister? I haven't brought you any harm," he said tiredly. "In fact, I'm about to heal this horrible wound you've gained, with minimum scarring. Is that not worth something?"

She frowned. Clary wondered whether his scars were caused by demon-metal, but she was loath to ask him. He already seemed close to snapping; she could see the amounts of stress his was feeling in his face, and the bloodlust that still lingered in his eyes. "I'm your prisoner." She gritted her teeth to prevent a few choice words from escaping as he walked passed her. "You're not doing this out of kindness."

He smiled charmingly at her, as his hands gently unwound the loose bandages that Jace had wrapped around her ankle. Clary couldn't bear to look at the damage that the demon-metal had caused, especially if the state of it was proportional to the pain. "You're my guest," he retorted. "I brought you into the manor for safety; should you have been left to roam Idris, you could have easily been killed in one of the many battles that are occurring. Many of my soldiers wouldn't have been able to recognise you until now. You have eaten my offered food; I have given you freedom over the manor; I have not harmed you or done anything against you. I have even let you see your precious _'Jace'_, instead of keeping you isolated. Most of what I have done, Clarissa, was out of kindness. You are my sister."

She scoffed.

He shrugged his shoulders delicately, focusing on the wound that was now exposed to him. His eyebrows then furrowed, and set his mouth into a grim line as he leaned in closer to her ankle. His long, thin fingers lightly and fleetingly touched areas around the injury, and Clary couldn't help but think that he could've been an artist as well, had he been raised by their mother and had her traits encouraged and developed rather than Valentine's focus on his demonic nature. "The good news is that it hasn't been infected by any ichor and the whip hasn't cut that deep," he said. He hovered around the wound for a moment more, looking critically at it. Suddenly, he apologised too quickly for Clary to process and so abruptly that it seemed meaningless, then pressed his fine fingers in her wound.

Clary screamed. The pain was so unexpected that she didn't have a chance to think about how weak it'd make her look to him, and by the time she had thought to stuff her fist in her mouth to muffle the screams, he was close to finishing his poke-around. She tearfully whimpered once he removed his fingers.

"Before I tell you the bad news, I think this is going to have to be cleaned up," he muttered, rubbing her sticky blood between his fingers in a mesmerised manner. He walked towards the basin and filled it with water. He waited for it to fill halfway, before carrying it over and setting it on the floor, where he then knelt. He dabbed at the wound with a practiced finesse.

She tried to distract herself from his blood-covered fingers and the after-effects of the pain. There was only one thing that came to mind. One thing that bothered her from the moment he had said it. "Why do you say his name like that?" She said.

There was a momentary pause as he appeared not to have heard her, since he was concentrating so hard on what he was doing. Clary was just about to repeat herself, hoping to gain his attention, but then he spoke: "Who?" He asked.

"Jace," she said quickly, grasping onto the distraction. "Why do you say his name as you do?"

He sniffed haughtily. "Because Jace isn't his name," he answered shortly. "Just as Clary isn't yours."

"But we've been known by those names for most of our lives," she protested. "What does it matter if they're not the names we were formally given? Jace was never given an official name."

She saw the muscles tensing in his jaw. "He was named Jonathan Christopher by our father. That is the first name he ever had, and so that is his name." He looked at her challengingly from under his eyelashes, barely moving his head to watch her.

"You share the same name. You only-"

"We do not!" Jonathon suddenly shouted, his body trembling with suppressed anger. The abruptness of it made Clary flinch. "We don't share the name. The name is purely mine; I was born first. He stole it." Jonathon quietly seethed, secretly thinking about everything that he hated about Jace and everything he both admired and envied in Jonathan. His sharp face slowly turned sulky as he looked away from her. "It's easier to name your experiments the same thing."

Clary was about to say something else, worried and concerned about what he was saying, but he stood, emptied the basin and threw away the wads of tissue that he had used, and walked out of the door. She didn't understand his justification for changing their names only because they weren't the names they were given at birth; especially in the case of Jace. He had never been _given_ an official by his true parents. Did Jonathon even think of him as a Herondale? Or was he considered a true brother, of their Morgenstern lineage? What difference did it make for her or Jace to be known by a different name than what they were used to? Why would her brother, who was more narcissistic and jealous than she had ever known Jace to be, want to give Jace his own name out of his own free will after he said that Jace had "stolen" it?

If he had so wanted, he could've fashioned Jace an entirely new name.

Jonathon came back moments later and sat on a chair opposite the bed, not saying anything but staring right at her, as if he could see through her soul. He pressed his fingertips together, and rested his chin atop them. His soulless black eyes unnerved her, but Clary liked to entertain the thought that she could see a faint ring of green around his pupil.

"Jonathan has told me that you can create runes," he stated, looking at her inquiringly. He raised a white eyebrow. "Is that true?"

"What of my ankle?" She retorted, worried and irritated about his subject change, especially because of what he decided to change it to.

"I've sent someone to get something for that. They'll be back shortly." He shrugged nonchalantly. "You'll need stitches, and you'll have to train harder with Jonathan and me or your right leg will be forever weaker. This would've easily been avoidable, of course, if you had played by the rules…"

"Well, when the game is fixed-"

"How do you avoid losing?" He suggested.

Her look was all the confirmation she needed.

"Wonderful question, Clarissa. When you figure it out, do tell me about it."

There was a quiet tap at the door then, and Jonathon, still looking amused by her, walked to the door and opened it. He guided the demon into his room and ordered it to set up everything he had requested; once it was finished, it left. Jonathan, on the other hand, was currently opening various drawers in his room, looking for appropriate glassware to pour some of the alcohol from the two bottles cradled in his arms into.

Clary didn't know why he had them, but she knew that she wasn't going to be even slightly inebriated in his presence.

He thrust a cup of green liquid into her hands before moving back to his position on the floor, next to her wounded ankle with the other bottle of clear alcohol, and his own tumbler glass of the drink he had given to her. He took a swig of it. "Go ahead, sister. Drink it." He smirked devilishly. "You're going to need any pain relief you can get your hands on," he said darkly.

It suddenly dawned on her what he was going to do, yet she still looked at the drink he had given her suspiciously. She wasn't sure how much more pain she should could endure without any aid. She looked over to her brother kneeling on the floor, watching her, and skilfully threading a needle; Clary couldn't help but pray that he could hold his liquor if he was going to do the stitches himself and drink.

He raised an eyebrow. "What, you never had absinthe before?"

"I don't drink alcohol regularly, especially since you started a war."

"Someone had to," he replied. He placed the threaded needle between his teeth, and reached for the other bottle of alcohol, which he opened. "If you're going to drink, better drink now. We don't have any antiseptics or rubbing alcohol, so this is the best we've got."

He waited a moment, to see if she changed her mind and drank, before pouring the liquid onto her fresh wound. The cup was touching her lips, and she was mid-swallow, before it hit the cut. She choked as a scream rose from her throat.

"You absolute bastard," Clary cried. Jonathon pretended not to have heard her.

When he stopped pouring to lift her leg so that he was able to read the underside of it, she took the opportunity to chug as much of the absinthe as she could before it started again. When he restarted, she was relieved to find that the pain had become more numbed. Before long, he had finished cleansing it; to her pleasure, the stitching hurt considerably less.

"You never did answer me about your rune-creating ability," he murmured, concentrating on his handiwork.

Clary had forgotten that he had ever brought it up, but the idea of it – that Jace would tell him such a thing – was enough to caused her resentment of her brother, and the every growing hatred of Jace to rise, despite whatever pain she was experiencing. She sneered. "I thought you would have waited longer before exploiting my angelic gifts for your own purposes."

"My own purposes?" He laughed. "Dear Clarissa, you would use the gifts our father and the Angel Ithuriel gave you however you intend."

"Father stole that angel's blood. They did not _give it_ to me, I did not _want_ it. If I was able to use it however I wanted, then you would be dead," she spat.

"Oh?" He sounded unsurprised, but he gave her a playful look. "So it doesn't quite work like that, then? Not on command. Well, I _suppose_ I can't put you in charge of the Shadowhunter battalion, then."

She knew that he was purposely playing her, purposely saying everything that she needed to hear to agree or inquire about his plans for his war, but Clary couldn't help it. She _had_ to know what he was speaking about; what the Shadowhunter battalion was and why he would give her power over a large group of warriors. Did he really trust her enough already to tempt her to organise a coup by giving her authority over a group of Shadowhunters?

Unless…they were his Dark Shadowhunters. Then she wouldn't stand a chance. Still, Clary had never even _seen_ any Shadowhunters around the manor, and angelic runes wouldn't work on them. Surely, Jonathon knew that.

"How was it _supposed_ to work?" She questioned. "What is this 'Shadowhunter battalion'?"

"Well, I think you've had long enough to settle in, little sister. You've been here for almost three weeks and haven't contributed at all to the war effort," he said, leaning forward in his chair to rest his elbows on his knees. "The Shadowhunter battalion is made up of all the Shadowhunters who have switched allegiance for the promise of a better future; Shadowhunters that have had their home destroyed here in Idris, or some of the many others that are coming in from Institutes across the world. Of course, in a war, you need every soldier you can spare out on the front winning your battles, and so that is why I have the Shadowhunter battalion. It displays a sense of strong unity if they're fighting side-by-side with the demons and other Downworlders."

"What am I supposed to do as leader of-"

"General. You'd be the general, dear sister. Leader of the vanguard. The vanguard are the people who are at the front of an army," he said simply. "Clary, my purpose for you is to order the vanguard for an approaching battle, train them to fighting standard, and provide them with runes-"

She suddenly became angry. "They're at the front because you think they're disposable!" She snapped. "Well, I _don't. _They were good people before you took them hostage and made them drink from your Infernal Cup! They-"

This time, she cut herself off as she heard her brother burst into laughter. He was shaking with it. Jonathon had to stop his stitching as he recovered from it. He stood from his crouch and rummaged around in his room for something. He hummed amusedly after he calmed down. "Your lack of knowledge is amusing, sister."

"Prisoners aren't exactly told anything," she bit out. "But I do know that the Endarkened won't respond to _my_ runes – angelic runes – even if I was as loyal as your little pet, Jace."

He tutted disappointedly, closing the cupboard behind him and turning around to face her once more. In his hands was the Infernal Cup; after the initial panic of being made to drink from it abided, she realised that the intricate decorations on the goblet had been scratched and chipped, damaged from a fight most likely – but it was also covered in a thin layer of dust, which Jonathon blew into the air. "You're wrong to judge Jonathan so harshly," he stated. "Anyway, my Clarissa, as you can see this cup," which he lifted into the air as if he was toasting someone, "hasn't been used in a while. I'll tell you truthfully, sister – I haven't used the Infernal Cup since I began this kingdom. All the Shadowhunters in the battalion are uncorrupted people – 'good people', as you described them – and have all come to me of their own accord. If I had wanted to create demonic runes to befit Endarkened Ones, I would do it myself."

"Jace is a traitor," she said simply. "And you are a lying monster. The Shadowhunters have no reason to join with you willingly or of their own conscience, someone who is destroying their home and friends and family. Someone who is letting _demons _access their world, which they usually fight to keep out. I haven't even seen any from the time that I have been here. Where are they? _Where are they being kept?"_

There was a sudden voice at his door. "Your highness," a demon rasped, bent ever-so-slightly in a bow.

"Yes?" Jonathon snapped suddenly, not taking his eyes off Clary. They silently challenged and observed each other. "What do you want? I said I was not to be disturbed."

The demon seemed nonchalant, whereas Clary was slightly nervous of his sudden anger spike, being unarmed, wounded and physically weaker. Now also slightly drunk from the drink he had given her to dull the pain. "Prince Jonathan requests that his whip be returned."

Clary's eyes moved over to settle on the whip that Jonathon had used to whip the Demon-Queen on the chessboard; the one that had the initials JCM. Of course, at the time she had seen it, she had assumed that it had belonged to her brother, as it was evidently 'M' for Morgenstern, but she was shocked to discover that her brother had even given Jace their surname as well as his own name. Moreover, despite everything that she had seen and heard Jace do during her imprisonment, she would never have guess that he owned a whip. She had even assumed that it too was made of demon-metal.

Slowly, Jonathon's eyes looked over to where the demon was standing and frowned. "And why does he request it? What gives him the idea that he is exempt from any order that I make? He has no power to request something from me."

The demon ignored what he could not answer. "He wishes to clean it himself and return it to the armoury."

He huffed irately. Clary closely watched him clenching and unclenching his fists that were dangling by his sides. "Fine," he said, waving towards where he had placed the whip on his cabinet. "Take it to him. When you hand it to him, make it known to him that he is to be accompanied by 10 soldiers until he leaves. Once he is done, send him to me." Jonathon looked back down towards Clary and considered her for a moment, his lip curling in distaste. "He is to leave_ all_ his weapons - including his stele - in the armoury when he leaves. I'm not happy with him."

The demon merely nodded and walked into the room to collect the whip before leaving. Clary noticed how delicately he held it, careful not to like the coil to touch his uncovered arms, and she knew that it had been made from adamas. His whip was specially crafted to inflict the most amount of pain on demons, yet he didn't use it for its purpose and was likely never to. When had he even acquired such a weapon? All the time they were at the Institute together, she had never seen it.

Jonathon spat in disgust after the demon had left his room. He set the cup on his desk, and moved back to continue his stitching. "Anyway. I have to keep them separate from the rest of the court." He shrugged, as if it didn't matter. Perhaps it didn't. "I was _hoping _that you could create runes whenever you wanted so that you might help them out. You see, they don't have much armour between them. And are only allowed one weapon of their choice. This army is mostly demon, therefore we don't have anyone to take care of an injured Shadowhunter. Jonathan and I won't have any time to do it – and you're not allowed to either." He rhythmically tapped his fingers on the rim of the cup, looking at her pleasantly. "It'd be _such a shame_ if all those good people died on the front because one of their own people – someone more angel than them – didn't want to help them preserve their lives." He smiled wickedly.

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><p><strong>7 reviews for the next chapter please!<strong>


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